Why does my bum Sag?

 I gaze through a hand-held mirror, adjusting it with care so that I can look into a full-length one behind me, to see my bum full-view.  Aghast, I see its lumps and bumps, a wizened old potato slipping almost half-way down the backs of my thighs.

 “Is it because I’m a couch potato?” I ask myself politely.

 “It can’t be!” I answer myself back.  “I keep pretty fit.  What the hell is it?”

 My other self just shrugs and turns to the remote control.

 “To hell with this,” I say, squashing this unruly being – this bum with a life of its own – into a pair of magic pants.

“Ah,” I exclaim, satisfied that I’ve shoved it so soundly that I begin to recognise the bum that I used to know and love: the bum the boys would tap and slap and squeeze.

 “Gerroff,” I’d say in the sharpest consonants I could muster.

 This was the bum that had sat pertly in teeny tiny white shorts as I’d hopped crab-like toward the bar, up and over, high-jumping a school record into the sand-pit. 

 My bum had stayed exactly where it ought, unmoving, a solid globe of muscle.

 As I’d dusted off grains of sand that stuck to my miniscule shorts, I’d known my bum would be just where it should be – and it was.  Of course it was.

 It was there at the end of my back, upward from my thighs; a crease below it; a clear division betwixt and between bum and leg – in exactly the right place, keeping exactly the right shape.

 But now – now – there is no divide.

My bum has decided, without consultation, to go its own sweet, merry way.  It has clearly run amok, not knowing where to stop.

 I worry. Will it stop?  Will it ever stop?  Will it wait until it has touched my ankles in an effort to be grounded? Or will it fall to the floor one day in a splurge of knobbles and bobbles of yellowing matter?

  “Oh,” I often say aloud to my worldly-wise cat who twitches his ears and looks askance at my naked form as I make lurid twists and turns to get a better view of my rear end.

 “Oh, for the sound of a husky voice hollering, ‘look at the arse on that!’”

Copyright© Sheila Newton 2011

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